Samlor stands with the stoop of age but moves with unpredictable, nimble grace, as if startled birds sometimes possess him. His leathery skin is mapped with fine scars and sunspots; a web of faded ink mapping ancient sites sprawls up his left forearm. Stringy white hair escapes a battered wide-brimmed hat, and his thick, smudged spectacles amplify sharp, darting blue eyes. Despite his age, his hands are steady save for moments when he clutches a satchel of ruined maps to his chest. He dresses in travelworn scholar’s robes patched with odd, colorful thread. His boots are always caked in dust, but his nails are immaculately clean.